


Serenade

by TongueTiedandSqueamish



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, John is a dork but it works out for him, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TongueTiedandSqueamish/pseuds/TongueTiedandSqueamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was this kicking old-school restaurant Laurens found last week, one of those humble diners that took you back half a century in one step, well-loved in its cracked leather, every edge stained by the rough treatment of age. He <em>loved</em> it.</p><p>And to top it all off, there was this handsome guy twice John's age who came in every Monday morning and fed the jukebox for an hour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serenade

**Author's Note:**

> I've had some writers block so my friend machumachumachu gave me the prompt "Laurenston, jukebox" because she couldn't remember the Hamilton/Laurens ship name, so I interpreted it to mean Washington and here we are!

There was this kicking old-school restaurant Laurens found last week, one of those humble diners that took you back half a century in one step, well-loved in its cracked leather, every edge stained by the rough treatment of age. He _loved_ it. No matter how Herc, Laf, and Alex teased him for his obsession with the past, he couldn’t shake his sense of awe when confronted with the gems and trash of times long gone. He personally owned so many Revolutionary-era quills it was ridiculous, not to mention his ’40s zoot suit or his collection of swords and bayonets used in various militaries – indulging his eccentricities was one of the only perks of being from money.

This place had it all, stuffed full of charm right down to its name: Mount Vernon. It reminded John of the name for a European salon or a Southern plantation.

And to top it all off, there was this guy who came in every Monday morning when the place was deserted – except for John, because he made a point to visit the diner at least twice a week and their coffee was the perfect Monday pick-me-up, so strong it felt like a punch in the throat every time – and fed the jukebox for an hour. The man’s song choices were an odd collection of classic rock, lovey-dovey post-WWII crooning, early blues, embarrassing ’90s hits, and, once, _Moonlight Sonata_. While Laurens nursed his coffee and tried not to die thinking about going to work in a few hours, the man sat near the jukebox, hummed along, ordered some actual food, and spoke pleasantly and familiarly to the waitress.

It was unfair, really. Not only did the man’s music taste interest John – he wanted to ask, “Do you have a favorite type of music? Do you listen to classical or do you just know Beethoven?” – not _only_ did the man have the bearing of someone entrenched in power – he wanted to ask, “Military? What branch? What rank?” – _not only_ was the man devastatingly handsome, twice John’s age, and possessed a smooth voice that could talk someone either on or off a ledge – John tried to telepathically plead, “Please tell me you’re gay. Bisexual. Anything.” – but the man was so damn _nice_. John had spent so much time around New York assholes, including himself and his friends, he had forgotten anyone could be so painfully polite and considerate. Every Monday, Laurens sat with his coffee and tried to cover the growing flutter in his chest with gulps of searing liquid as he listened to the tracks the man had selected that day and the conversation between him and the waitress. “Mr. Washington,” she called him. “Ms. Lewis,” he called her, or, occasionally, “Maria.”

John learned everything about Maria after a couple weeks. She had a four year old daughter named Susan, divorced her husband in the last few months, struggled to make ends meet, always wore some shade of red somewhere, was kind but desperate and skittish, often ducked subjects, and held her elbow self-consciously. Meanwhile, he learned approximately nothing about Mr. Washington. He had a nice smile, gentle and strong and reassuring. His shoulders looked somehow wider in a suit jacket. He alluded to “work” with warmth. When Maria asked, “How’s Martha?” Washington replied, “Still on the campaign trail, of course.” Laurens had so many questions he could barely stand it.

So, next Monday, he did what he did best: something impulsive and stupid.

He arrived early, before any of the cooks had arrived, before Maria had unlocked the diner even. John had overestimated how early she would have gotten there, so he had been standing outside for a solid hour. She laughed when she saw him. “Are you that desperate for coffee this morning?”

“Uh,” Laurens replied intelligently. “Um . . .?” Words were hard at five a.m. when he’d woken up at four. The sun hadn’t even risen yet. What the hell was he doing?

While the coffee was brewing, John contemplated the jukebox. He scanned through the expansive selection, trying to convince himself to be subtle and ultimately failing when his fingers hovered over _Never Gonna Give You Up_ and _I Want to Know What Love Is_. He queued up as many as songs as he could conceive, well over two hours worth, and sat in Washington’s usual spot to wait.

Maria raised an eyebrow at him when she served him his first cup of coffee, whether at the playing jukebox, his seat, or both, he wasn't sure. He steadfastly pretended nothing was different.

Washington arrived about an hour later, inappropriately awake for the break of dawn. When he spotted Laurens in his spot, a flicker of confusion crossed his face. Before he could turn and take his usurpation gracefully, John waved. “Mr. Washington, right?” he said, feigning ignorance. “Oh man, I stole your seat, didn’t I?” Behind Washington, Maria glanced between them from a barstool and put a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

“It’s quite all right,” Washington replied. “It’s a booth seat. No need for ruffled feathers.”

John threw back the last of his coffee to fortify himself and narrowly avoided slamming his mug on the table. One of Washington’s eyebrows was arched, his expression befuddled. “Actually, Mr. Washington.” John scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over himself. “I just stole your spot as an awkward transition to ask if you’d dance with me.”

John extended a hand. Maria made a muffled squealing noise. _Both_ of Washington’s eyebrows were raised now. “ _Dance_?” Washington repeated.

“Yeah. There is a jukebox and all.” John gestured to the machine in question, which played _Hello_ by Lionel Richie.

“I . . .” Washington glanced between Laurens, the jukebox, and Maria, who had one hand over her mouth and one clutched to her chest, undergoing rapture it seemed like. He looked to John, and, slowly, returned a small smile to John’s enormous goofy one. “Why the hell not?” He took, or engulfed, rather, John’s offered hand, then stalled out in uncertainty. “How are we . . .?”

Laurens closed the gap between them, placing a hand on Washington’s shoulderblade and holding their clasped hands to the side. “Do you know how to waltz?” He felt ridiculous, assigning himself the leading role when this close he had to tilt his head up from Washington’s neck to meet his gaze.

Washington’s hand hesitantly fell to the top of John’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “Though I’ve never been led, and there isn’t much room to maneuver.”

“We’ll manage.”

After several starts and stops, as Washington stepped on John’s feet as he forgot to step left or right, and muttered comments from both about slowing down or speeding up to the beat of the newest sappy song, and perfecting how to turn in the tight aisle between the booths so they were twisting almost every other step in a flurry of blurry movement, sweat forming on Washington’s neck and dripping down John’s temple, their hands clasped tight together, chests pushed against each other in that quick and basic _one two three_ , they somehow managed a good waltz. John hadn’t waltzed since his days of European private school and the overbearingly formal galas his father hosted or coerced John to attend, when Laurens would hold some infatuated, awkward, or bored-looking girl and hope the song would end soon. In this impromptu ballroom, however, with a ridge in its floor he continued to trip over, as they swirled and swirled, on the edge of falling but holding each other too tight, feet maneuvering just right, until John began laughing at the top of his lungs and then tripped and almost cracked his head open on a table and laughed even _louder_. Washington knelt beside his collapsed form and laughed with him, a large hand hovering by Laurens’s jaw but not touching. “Are you all right?”

John pressed a hand to his own forehead, giggling. “I’m so dizzy. Is this what tornadoes feel like?”

“Tornadoes are overzealous waltz partners,” Washington mused. “We should tell the meteorologists.”

“Holy shit!” John wheezed and rolled to the side, clutching his sides as he shook with a sudden and forceful laughter. When he was breathless and his ribs hurt, he grasped Washington’s still-hovering arm. “Can I kiss you?”

The older man blinked, face falling neutral in shock.

John swore and tried to wave away his words. “Ignore me, I’m an idiot without any common sense.”

“I don’t know your name,” Washington pointed out, quiet. His eyes were on John’s mouth.

John grinned, slid a hand up to grip Washington’s collar, half-laughing and not trying to stop himself. “I’m John Laurens.”

Before Laurens could elaborate, head off any questions with “Yes, the son of _Senator_ Laurens,” or lick his lips to reinforce his earlier inquiry, Washington lurched forward and kissed him on the cracked, uneven tiling of Mount Vernon’s floor, as clumsily and eagerly as they had waltzed.

A minute later, Washington broke off and floundered backward to land on his ass and Laurens pushed himself up to sitting. “This . . .” Washington began, rubbing at his knees from where they’d been pressed to the harsh tile and looking dazed, “is not what I expected when I came in this morning.”

“I’m going to be honest, I wasn’t expecting it either. Not outside my wildest dreams, of course.”

Washington opened his mouth to reply, but _Never Gonna Give You Up_ finally came up in the queue and John leaped to his feet with a loud whoop and began awkwardly flailing his limbs in his best Rick Astley impression, leaving Washington on the floor to smile and cover it up with a hand over his mouth. “I remember when this song came out when I was in college,” he said.

“Well come on, relive your youth, old man!”

So they danced again, this time loose and jerky and without finesse through a dozen more songs, John mouthing lyrics and waggling his eyebrows, Washington chuckling and pinching him on the side when he was especially cheeky. John hung his arms around the other’s waist and spun them until John almost fell over again, and everything was so easy, every movement and shouted joke so fluid, as if they’d talked for hours, that John prepared to drag Washington down for a second kiss when the storefront bell rang. They sprung apart, John bumping into a table while Washington whirled to face the intruder.

The fat man paused inside the door frame, smiling in amusement. “George?”

“Henry!” Washington – _George Washington_ , Laurens thought, liking how the name rested in his mind – rushed forward, a blush already rising on his cheeks. “I was just, uh, well you see—”

“Getting cozy with customers, Washington? I’m proud of you.” Henry smacked the taller man on the arm. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and all.”

“ _Knox_.”

John checked his watch on a whim. “Fuck!” he cursed. “I need to get ready for work.” He skated by Washington, pausing to lean up and kiss him on the cheek, over the warmth of his blush, and waved as he hurried out the door. “I’ll see you soon!” Then he was gone.

His friends were going to _flip_ when he told them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, in case I'm struck by writer's block again, feel free to shoot me prompts over at tonguetiedandsqueamish.tumblr.com  
> My blog is a barren wasteland of nothing except my fanfics but *shrug* I'm not extremely good at participating in social media.


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